


The High Cost of Dying

by dragonnan



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brief Mention of Stephen's Family History (per comics), Brief Stephen/Christine UST, Brief suicidal thoughts, Canon Character Deaths Discussed, Extensive Discussion of Death, Extreme Blood and Gore Flashbacks, Gen, Karl Mordo Briefly Implied/Mentioned, Not a Comics Based Story, Ongoing Mental and Psychological Trauma, Post-Doctor Strange (2016), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stephen and Wong Friendship, The Ancient One mentioned, The Cloak of Levitation is a Better Friend than Mordo, Two Real World Deaths Mentioned, no spoilers for infinity wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 17:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15029702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: "We don't get to choose our time. Death is what gives life meaning. To know your days are numbered and your time is short. You'd think, after all this time, I'd be ready...”The nightmares, after losing his hands, had led him to Kathmandu.But they were nothing compared to the nightmares after facing Dormammu.





	The High Cost of Dying

 

“ _I see what I’ve always seen. Your overinflated ego. You want to go back to the delusion that you can control anything, even death, which no one can control. Not even the great Doctor Stephen Strange.”_

\- The Ancient One

 

 

 

 

Scarred fingers trembled over the clay bowl – shaking off the last of the soap bubbles. A drop of red struck the lip – rolling into the suds and fanning out in a veil. He'd cut himself again. No matter – it wasn't the first time. Stephen held a folded cloth below his lip – where he usually cut himself. Every time he did, he would think about keeping a bottle of liquid bandage with the rest of his toiletries. Three months since taking up residence in the Sanctum Sanctorum and he still hadn't followed through on that purchase.

 

It was twenty after four when he exited his chambers for the courtyard. Wong didn't speak to his late arrival other than to eye him sideways. Stephen knelt – knitting his aching hands together and closing his eyes. Entering meditation had been a struggle, at first. So much, constantly, screaming for his attention – dividing his focus – shrieking – a cacophony of vibrating, discordant interests, worries, ideas, fears, doubts – everything from wishing for a cup of coffee from Dunkin' Donuts to remembering the scent of Christine's soap to working out the nuances for a thesis on the physical impact of astral projection on the unconscious: exploring the limits of the limitless. Not an ideal title, granted. In the months to follow, however, those distractions gradually faded... stopped. Instead, he was able to allow for a more peaceful journey through his thoughts. They existed, still, but no longer as a cloud of gnats. Rather, they resided along a mental hallway – cataloged and easily referenced. Through one door, he could visit childhood – see his sister, Donna, happy and alive and years away from her death. And his mother, still healthy – before cancer had withered her to a skeleton – stealing her vitality and will. Behind another door was Metro-General, where he'd first met Christine. No shield for himself, he embraced both the good and the bad of their relationship – accepting his fault and moving forward. Every moment of his history was another door – another room to linger – remember. Still, he passed them all without turning a single knob. He climbed... up a staircase... the steps beneath his feet first marble, then stone... darkening... become warm... hot... scalding the soles of his feet...

 

Pebbles of sweat rolled into his collar. His hands trembled – the tremor moving through his shoulders and down his limbs. His breaths became short, staggered, bursts.

 

An impact struck his arm and he gasped – ripping backward and guarding his face... a hand falling back to catch him against the flagstone beneath his knees.

 

“Stephen?”

 

Wong released him and straightened.

 

Swallowing did little to chase the dryness and he was grateful when his companion held out a cup of spring water.

 

“Thanks.” He gasped out after gulping the cool liquid.

 

“You saw him again. The Dark One.”

 

Stephen rolled the cup between his palms – watching the small collection of water at the bottom move across the uneven surface. After a moment, he nodded.

 

Gently, Wong lifted the cup from his uncertain hold.

 

“Come. You need to eat.”

 

Left to pull himself upright, Stephen dusted off his knees and followed Wong back inside.

 

 

**~** **۞** **~**

 

 

Meditation was something far removed from what Stephen had imagined it to be – back when he'd still believed the world to be grounded in mysteries with logic at their core (brushing aside inconsistencies such as the New York Incident – something _very_ removed from his comfort zone). Like many, he'd presumed it to be a monotone repetition of “OM” surrounded by a thicket of candles and eye watering incense. Not to say there weren't those who benefitted from verbal centering – and several of his fellow initiates had used candles, incense; one of them opened her mind by gently rubbing the ears of one of the temple cats.

 

For Stephen, it was the sounds of the city – muted beneath layers of incantations around the Sanctum, where he felt his greatest sense of connection. Maybe it was the activity of human life – those he protected – that grounded his feet and sent him soaring (another contradiction he found no longer troubled him). He thrived on their life. The hum of the grind that had once been lifeblood for him – and still, in many ways, remained.

 

But while he still, _still_ , thought firstly of the lives and living roaring around him – far below the walls of the Sanctum – it always followed; the inevitability of their death.

 

_"We don't get to choose our time. Death is what gives life meaning. To know your days are numbered and your time is short. You'd think, after all this time, I'd be ready...”_

 

Stephen had spent a great deal of his adult life pondering death. It had been the driving force behind wanting to become a doctor. While his ego wasn't so enormous that he had thought he could ever fully defeat it, he'd had no misconceptions that his skills could keep it at bay longer than most in his field. And, as his talents had been honed, he'd been called upon for more and more – preferring the label of “doctor” while his patients, more often than not, had called him “miracle worker”. He'd tolerated it – even though he'd disdained any connection with fantasy. The world had been the concrete beneath his Italian leather and as solid and practical as the buildings that lined Park Avenue.

 

But for one second of inattention...

 

He'd fought death, on a personal level, clawing away from that sucking black depth – unaware of what he was returning to on the other side. Only to see his hands... Mangled hunks of tattered meat...

 

And for the first time... he'd thought of death, not as something to defeat... but to embrace.

 

After treatments failed.

 

After the money ran out.

 

After other professionals gave up on him.

 

And even Christine walked away...

 

_after he'd pushed her away..._

 

He'd thought of death a great deal. The irony that, when he was no longer battling it, it no longer chose to engage him, either. It was odd, that way. Sparing some when there was no rational reason behind their survival while others were taken in the most mundane of ways.

 

Vesna Vulović was blown from an exploding aircraft and fell 33,330 feet – and was the only survivor of the devastated jet. Diana Durre, of Chambers, Nebraska, was crushed under a Taco Bell sign when a support pole snapped.

 

Death was at best, impartial.

 

It was obvious that who you were and what you were didn't matter. Death was a random and fleeting creature – taking mothers from children, husbands from wives, children from parents... Sometimes death was the slow draining of life while a body wasted and shrived from disease – under constant torment until finally, finally released. Other times it was instant – ripped away without the chance to say goodbye – or see one last smile from a loved one – one last embrace. A mother... and a sister...

 

Sometimes death came from a bullet – or a blade. Or, sometimes, a falling sign outside of a fast food restaurant.

 

Alone in the night – when his hands couldn't squeeze tightly enough to pull a sheet higher than his waist; when the only medication he could afford for his pain was whatever could be purchased from the local pharmacy, next to the rack of get well cards, he allowed for deeper consideration. He wondered if death was, in fact, so impartial. It wasn't long before he'd started to see death as an actual entity – surprising himself in realizing he may have had a form of faith, after all – to see death as a literal being. Not impartial, as first thought, but closer to a trickster. A skeletal imp finding amusement in suffering.

 

In that revelation, the petulance within him had gained strength. Like hell he'd give that boney shade the satisfaction of taking him so easily. It would have to fight for him.

 

After...

 

After...

 

...he'd drained the last penny from his hemorrhaging bank account and had booked a ticket to Nepal.

 

After wandering crowded streets for most of a day...

 

After a beating in a street – bloodied and humiliated...

 

After a revelation that had rocked him to the core of the soul he'd refused to believe existed until it had been shoved from his body and he'd seen it for himself in the most humbling demonstration of...

 

_It isn't about you..._

 

After he'd found life, there, again...

 

More – he'd found a hunger for it. Not in the smug way of merely thumbing his nose at death... but in the preciousness of every life, breathing together – existing on endless planes and humming in a union that surpassed what he'd ever come to understand of living. Every life mattered. All life, from bacteria to blue whales, had a reason for its creation. And, though not even the Ancient One had clear answers on what had put the universes into play, she'd given context for his place in it all.

 

He was no longer just a healer – mending together the broken or healing the sick. Now, he was something more.

 

A Shield.

 

And in that role, he'd truly came to understand death, as well, in all its scope and nuance.

 

“ _Dormammu, I've come to bargain...”_

 

Stephen's hands shot spears of pain to his elbows – weakness following; the shatter of ceramic against stone driving back the burning hot eyes.

 

Potstickers now stuck to the floor along with a spray of rice and dipping sauce.

 

“Shit.”

 

Wong, fortunately, wasn't hovering with his golden aura of judgement. Stephen's thumb brushed across the metal casing of the Eye. He considered its capabilities as he chewed his lip. Even to himself he could admit it was only a fleeting thought. Sighing he, instead, found a damp cloth to clean up his demolished lunch. It would have been more of a loss were he actually hungry.

 

Picking random pieces of rice from his robes, Stephen abandoned food for fresh air – taking his thoughts to the streets. In his time with the Ancient One, he'd learned much of her tremendous wisdom – her kindness – her... astounding complexity. He'd also come to appreciate her humor – twisted though it could be. For instance, rarely had she bothered with illusions when leaving the temple. While ancient robes barely turned a head in Kathmandu, striding through London, or downtown New York, while thusly dressed, made for an unforgettable spectacle. Stephen, for his part, had found himself less inclined to draw that level of attention. A small twist of the wrist and a cascade of energy melted his sorcerer's garb into business casual – his cloak wrapping his shoulders in the form of a rust red cardigan while the Eye of Agamotto transformed into a silver necktie with an emerald tie tack. The first time the Ancient One had demonstrated the trick he may have responded with an amused “Bibbitty-Bobbotty-Boo.” Still, it provided a necessary level of normalcy in a world rapidly hurtling away from what normal would ever be again.

 

Mild, for Autumn, the breeze swirled and slipped between alleyways – teasing red and gold leaves from the maples lining Bleecker Street and fluttering beneath awnings – lifting them like skirts. Not far off, candied peanuts were being roasted and hotdogs were being topped with every imaginable condiment for the noon lunch crowd. Absent appetite woke with teeth and Stephen adjusted his travel towards the closest vendor.

 

Lucky enough he actually had cash on him – the sharply folded ones a leftover from last week's ice cream run. Mental apology to his gut, Stephen went for broke – getting one with everything; reminding him of the old joke yet noting that the man in the grease stained apron wasn't anywhere close to amused when he tried it on him – unable to resist the irony. The guy made Wong look like Doug Henning.

 

A fan of heat, Stephen, none-the-less, regretted the jalapenos with nothing to cool his palette. Chewing while he walked – he passed moms with strollers, businessmen with briefcases, and all variety of New York's vast community. During a break in traffic, he jogged across the street – pitching his paper wrapper in a wire mesh trash bin before pushing through into the sights and smells of the Food Mart adjacent to Fat Apollo's Cafe.

 

Pretty well stocked, as far as convenience stores went. The usual selection of magazines and newspapers – random toiletries on one side, candy on the other. Several aisles devoted to snacks – jerky (Wong's favorite being lime chili), a few dozen kinds of chips, snack cakes, nuts, etc. And, right near the cash register; two young men armed with a shotgun and .45 respectively. Stephen tipped his head. Possibly a .38... he wasn't entirely certain. The thing was – he didn't really know guns all that well – beyond the damage they did.

 

Panic – desperation – stupidity? Some combination of all three, apparently at play, to try robbing a shop in the dead of afternoon on a busy city street. Granted, the shop was situated in a slight dead zone for the local police presence – the closest precinct being the 9th, roughly twelve blocks Northeast.

 

Not to mention the proximity of another, somewhat more powerful, presence rather more closely situated. Not that brilliant characters such as these would have any inkling.

 

“Shit! I told you to watch the door, asshole!”

 

And look at that, he'd been spotted. So much for trying not to raise a fuss. “Uh... hi.” Jaunty tip of the hand – going for that 'oops, I've just stumbled upon a crime scene; don't mind me, I'm just here for a package of Ding-Dongs' vibe.

 

Shotgun, who'd been rocking foot to foot, jerked a look over his shoulder before hefting his weapon a bit higher – a bit more threateningly – towards the frozen clerk. “Come one, come on, hurry the fuck up!!”

 

Handgun, darting attention back and forth between the cash register and the newcomer, jerked his chin and wildly panned his gun up and down.

 

“Nice tie jewelry. Hand it over! Along with any cash you got and that watch! Now!”

 

Stephen didn't move. “Yeah... sorry. See, I spent most of my cash on a hot dog and the little I have left is going towards either an orange Fanta or a Raspberry Nestea. I haven't completely decided yet but I'd sorta been counting on some time to browse.”

 

“I don't give a fuck! Empty your pockets or I put a hole through your fucking head!”

 

Stephen pursed his lips – mulling that over. The clerk had begun to move, now, jerky pecking at the register keys – stalling, possibly – terrified, definitely. Shotgun hunched his shoulders and checked the door again – gun drifting towards the cold case before re-centering as he focused back on target.

 

Meanwhile, Handgun took three wide steps forward – finger jabbing at the attractive shiny.

 

“I said give me that fucking gem, Pops!”

 

“Or you'll blow a hole in my head – sorry, _fucking_ head – as I believe you'd articulated.” Still no move to follow through with those orders, however, and Handgun seemed to be realizing his threat wasn't as imposing as he'd likely hoped it would be. Shotgun, meanwhile, was snatching the meager afternoon take from the open cash drawer – weapon now aimed at a 90 degree angle towards the flickering fluorescent panels above.

 

Stephen flexed his fingers, palms outward. “Hey, you kids want to see a magic trick?”

 

Sweeping his arms in an arc, he conjured double shields; taking the moment of stunned shock to knock Handgun's weapon away with the edge of one burning ring – a follow-up swing taking Shotgun out of the fight with a blow to the back of the head – then spinning back towards Handgun-

 

Explosive force slammed Stephen down to his knees – golden shields fracturing into sparks. Unarmed, Handgun – mind skittering to the irony of that observation – spun and bolted – door jangling at his hard exit. On the floor, at his back, Shotgun groaned but otherwise didn't move.

 

A freezing drizzle of sweat made a long streak along Stephen's jaw. He couldn't, quite, seem to catch his breath. He was hunched on his hands and knees but couldn't comprehend the action of standing.

 

He felt a ripple travel from shoulders to waist – the cloth encasing his torso constricting – shivering mild panic through his chest and he fought not to tear the not-a-cardigan from his body – god, he couldn't breathe! Trying to push himself up, he trembled at the stiff ache throbbing through his midsection. His brain analyzed the symptoms even as he struggled to understand why... he was going into shock. His arms folded beneath him; dropping him to his side and he felt the first real bloom of heat in his back. He couldn't reach it with his hands but he could feel another sensation – wet – and understood, suddenly, what had happened... just not

 

“How... h-ho-how... what...?”

 

A shaking, terrified voice responded. “I'm sorry – God I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn-I didn-I didn't m-mean – please, oh my God, don't die – please don't die – oh my God!”

 

The clerk – babbling – sneakers squeaking as he, apparently, made several running steps back and forth. And then a sob – a metallic clank as something heavy dropped on the counter.

 

“Please – you have to come quick! He's bleeding – I think he... he's been shot and I think he's dying!”

 

Stephen tuned out the 911 call in the background. The kid wasn't wrong. Though he wasn't, yet, feeling the pain that he knew would hit once the adrenaline faded, he knew, roughly, where he'd been shot. Large intestine and possibly the right kidney were compromised – no exit wound so the bullet likely struck bone – angle suggesting slight upward path and... Stephen gasped – tasting blood... probable lung involvement.

 

Weakness was rapidly stripping away his ability to move – his fingers splayed – shaking. His vision was started to go unfocused – a darkening grey at the edges. Color had already begun to leech from his sight.

 

Everything stopped in his next breath – grey brightening to silver and everything tunneled to a single pinprick...

 

He burst free; his body left behind with the shade of his astral form lifting above – evaluating the damage from an outsider's perspective. Literally. Moving closer, he slipped his fingers past the layers of cloth and skin. A warm glow lit the interior – highlighting veins and bone and organs...

 

A clatter and startled shout reminded him of the clerk – the young man standing just behind him and currently staring at the light show with his jaw slack. In another moment, he swallowed – rubbing his head and muttering.

 

“Oh my God... that isn't normal...”

 

Interesting... Terrified but he hadn't run away, yet. Stephen pushed his head and shoulders into the physical world. “It also isn't normal to stand around gaping while a man bleeds out on the floor – no thanks to you.”

 

“Holy shit! Ohhhh holy shit!!” Backpedaling into an end cap of Hostess snack cakes, the young man pointed a shaking hand at the ghost apparently haunting the cracker aisle.

 

“Holy shit, you're dead – you're dead – are you dead?? Oh, God, don't kill me!”

 

“Okay, calm down, I'm not going to kill you... Wayne.”

 

Wayne wrapped his arms around himself, half bending at the waist – long dreadlocks swinging into his eyes. “How- how- how...?”

 

Forgoing the cliché of pointing out the prominent name tag, Stephen frowned. “Because I'm a powerful sorcerer and I can read your mind.” At Wayne's already ashy face losing yet more color, Stephen rolled his eyes. “I read your name tag. Now, do you mind?” He gestured to the widening blood pool.

 

“I'm sorry – I'm sorry I- I never shot a gun before! I wasn't even trying to hit that guy,”

 

“Clearly...” Stephen muttered.

 

“I just wanted to scare him! It's the third time we been hit this month!”

 

“This is all, really, fascinating but you'll notice I'm still bleeding.”

 

“Shit – oh shit, I'm sorry...” Wayne started to kneel – then paused. “Uhh...”

 

Stephen glared. “What? Can we move it along, please?”

 

Licking his lips, Wayne jerked his chin. “You... you, ah, think you could... could float back... a little?”

 

Glaring harder, Stephen pointed towards the bullet wound. “Put your hand here and press down, hard.”

 

Eyes still a bit too wide, Wayne stopped balking and did as he was told – lips peeling back from his teeth as his hands layered over the spreading blood. “Nnnnnuuuughhhh....”

 

Though he'd only been moments out of his body, Stephen could already feel the draining pull to return. With his injury, too long in astral form and he'd lose the connection completely.

 

“Wayne?”

 

The younger man had sealed his eyes tight – no response to his name.

 

“Wayne – open your eyes and look at me.”

 

Tight head shake – dreads swinging wide – eyes pinched even tighter.

 

Stephen tipped his chin – staring – fully capable of not blinking in this form. A moment later, Wayne's left eyelid peeled up a hair – spotting Stephen on the floor as well as across from him. A decidedly not Hulk shade of green flushed along his throat.

 

“If you throw up on me I promise I will curse you with a permanent case of gastroparesis.”

 

Doubtful Wayne knew what that was but the desired effect was a few rough swallows and several deep breaths. “It's cool – it's cool – just keep your Dumbledore freakin ass over there and I'll do my thing!”

 

Best he could hope for. And Stephen couldn't wait any longer.

 

“Listen, Wayne? I need to leave now. But just keep pressure on that wound and don't panic. The ambulance will be here soon.”

 

Of course, being the attentive fellow that he was, Wayne immediately started to panic. “Wait what? Naw, naw, naw! Dude, this is your body, bro – you gotta stay here and deal with this!”

 

Stephen's hold was slipping – feeling the first ripple of pain where it hadn't existed seconds earlier. “Sorry, kid – I don't have a choice. Now, pressure?” Wayne nodded, “and don't... panic.”

 

The soft, translucent haze of immaterial existence was slammed into the material with blazing reality – pain and gasping and pressure and Wayne shouting curses but at least he hadn't moved his hands from where they crushed against Stephen's back.

 

He groaned; long fingers curling in a stiff claw against the floor. If anything, this terrified Wayne even more as he suddenly backed away.

 

“Oh, mother fuck no...”

 

Stephen blinked sweat but his attempt to turn towards the other man sent ice down his spine. “W-Wayne I need you to k-k-keep pressi-ing on the w-wound!” His breathing was worse. A whole lot worse. At least his spine didn't appear to have been damaged but that would be little comfort if he died.

 

Wayne didn't reply but Stephen felt the hands return - pushing hard enough that he saw an afterimage of white for a moment.

 

Outside, he could hear the blat of police sirens – the ambulance just behind. A soft ping from the doors as they slid aside and his failing vision was soon filled with black shoes and dark blue slacks – one of the officers kneeling at his head and asking his name – if he knew where he was – if he could hear her...

 

 

 

**~** **۞** **~**

 

 

 

 

“ _Dormammu, I've come to bargain...”_

 

_Black and violet lit by a throb of molten green – broken earth felt hot under his heels – the pull of gravity weaker, here, and there was time enough to take in the true scale of the being he'd gone to challenge – to barter his existence – a payment of which he'd given little thought until he'd been weaving a spell of eternity around his wrist – seeing no other option even as the weight of it had nearly made him stagger..._

 

13 hours.

 

To the best that Stephen had been able to determine, 13 hours was about how long it took to die 1,000 times.

 

Just a little over a day.

 

Not really that long.

 

_"You will spend eternity dying!"_

 

Not an eternity.

 

_"You cannot do this forever!"_

 

Not forever.

 

_"You will suffer!"_

 

Just 13 hours. He'd spent more time on his doctorate.

 

1,000 deaths.

 

_"You've come to die! Your world is now my world, like all worlds!"_

 

He remembered them all.

 

51 times sliced to pieces by wide bands of energy. The fastest death – and most of these towards the end – when creativity had given way to frustration. Or boredom.

 

150 times torn apart – counting both the instant tearing away of all four limbs as well as the slower disarticulation – each limb rotated from the joint – the sound of muscles and tendons ripping away – bones creaking – snapping – blood bursting from wide rips of flesh – nearly as loud as his horrified shrieks and death never came quite fast enough. Dormammu always took his hands first.

 

100 times crushed beneath boulders of various shapes and mass – some smooth while others pocked with jagged craters. Not always a direct hit. Sometimes the mass of stone would crush him instantly. Sometimes he was buried beneath it – his ribcage caved – bones snapping one by one as the weight bore down. Until his throat filled with blood and he choked to death on his own fluids.

 

12 times blown to dust by a concussive energy wave.

 

44 times suffocated – his lungs force filled with something black and thick like tar – raging hot that scorched the tissue it touched – death likely brought on by the burning away of alveoli and not the filling of his lungs. One of the longer ways to die – ample time to feel Dormammu's fury – his own eyes seeping tears and blood.

 

25 times stoned to death.

 

400 times burned alive – clearly a favorite – his eyes burning from his skull – blind and left crawling on charred stumps – esophagus scorched... Stephen was never certain what killed him each of those times – whether the massive and sudden fluid loss, suffocation when his lungs burst, or simply from roasting alive.

 

Skin peeled by fingers of razor thin light, 44 times.

 

Bludgeoned to death, 90 times.

 

Impaled, 54 times.

 

30 times... 30 times Dormammu had left him – broken – to die slowly. The longest he'd held out had been three hours – the lower half of his body a landscape of black and seeping flesh – pinned to the ground by spears of blunt stone forced up through his shoulders. Dormammu hadn't spoken – watching, only, with scorched eyes... He tried not to remember what he saw in the darkened blood when he'd vomited.

 

After it had ended. After the day had been saved and the city resumed its endless pace; he'd retreated to his quarters. He'd told Wong it was to sleep. He hadn't slept. Instead, he'd meditated – hands shaking while his mind took him through every death all over again. Cycling – repeating – hour upon hour...

 

The following morning, shuffling to the rooftop, Wong hadn't commented on his reddened, watery eyes – save for the hand he'd placed on his shoulder.

 

Later that day, they'd gone out for ice cream for the first time.

 

 

 

**~** **۞** **~**

 

 

 

“I've been thinking of getting a plaque for the door. 'Reserved for Stephen Strange'. Maybe engraved in brass since it's probably going to be a permanent fixture.”

 

Stephen chuckled – though it made his middle clench in pain. His legs moved beneath the thin sheets – arms pebbling from the coolness of the room.

 

“That's nice. Remind me what I ever saw in you?”

 

Christine retrieved a warm blanket from the cabinet near the bathroom – spreading the heated cloth over Stephen's body and triggering an incredibly obscene groan.

 

“Obviously it wasn't my sense of humor so odds are fair that it was either my beautiful smile or my incredible ass.”

 

The second round of laughter triggered coughing – and then groaning of a less pleasing sort. Christine mouthed a “sorry” and bumped the morphine a little more in remorse.

 

“Better?” Then she jerked at the voice from the door.

 

“Better would have involved watching his back in the first place.” Wong hung in the door – clad in blue jeans, white t-shirt, windbreaker... and a Yankees baseball cap.

 

By the time Stephen's laugher finally abated, for the third time, he was certain he was going to die. Permanently, this time.

 

Rubbing Stephen's arm, Christine tilted an apologetic smile towards the man in the door. “Sorry... he's a liiiittle high.” She whispered behind her hand.

 

Trying to push himself up – shaking off Christine's help, Stephen frowned. “Yeah – that isn't actually true,” his face crumpled with giggles. “I am a _LOT_ high!”

 

Ignoring the Master's meltdown, Wong closed the door – propping what appeared to be a plush, green, gorilla next to a vase of flowers.

 

“I'm sorry, did you – _cough_ – did you buy me a get well monkey?”

 

Ignoring the question, Wong gave Christine a small bow. “I would like to express my gratitude for, once more, saving his life.”

 

Turning to Stephen, he bowed again. “Master Hamir would like to know if he should begin moving his things into the Sanctum now, or wait until you do something even more foolish that will ultimately result in your death.”

 

Stephen pinched his lips; eyes rolling. “Okay, you and I both know that Master Hamir doesn't own any belongings.” He rasped.

 

His expression stoic, as always, Christine still noticed the gleam in Wong's eyes as he beckoned a chair closer with the slight tilt of two fingers. While the other man sat, she brushed her fingers across Stephen's hand – the narrow scars a ridge beneath her touch. Like Stephen, she was a person of science. Medicine was based in the world of the tactile – the logical. And, yet, even she had found Stephen's abilities about as close to magic as she'd thought possible. She'd seen him heal and restore where any other doctor would have long ago declared it a lost cause. And, yet, that same determination had nearly destroyed him – the ego built upon his own brilliance had been unwilling to accept that there had been nothing more that science could offer.

 

And, once more, in any other person they'd eventually have given up - forced to do so because no other option remained. But Stephen had never, once, accepted the idea of failure.

 

His hand turned – fingers curling around hers – damaged tissue making them tremble as he flexed muscle that would never, ever, fully heal.

 

“You know, I thought you were going to bleed to death. You should... you should have bled to death. I think, when you get out of here, you need to look up that kid who saved you and thank him.”

 

Stephen wrinkled his nose. “Okay, to start with, this hero you're talking about? Yeah, he's the same moron that shot me in the first place. And secondly – he wasn't the one who saved me.”

 

Christine tucked her chin – losing his hold as she sat back in her chair. “Oh – so you're saying there was a second person there keeping your intestines from spilling onto the floor?”

 

“They weren't spilling out and... not a person... exactly...”

 

Hedging was never a good sign. Christine wrinkled her forehead. “Then who...?”

 

Unable to finish, she followed Stephen's shaky point towards the short window seat. There was nothing there but a small pillow, a rumbled blanket where she'd spent the last three days painfully sleeping, and the folded stack of Stephen's clothes.

 

“Oh, don't tell me there are invisible people in your world, now.”

 

“Actually...”

 

She was about to turn to glare at him when the stack of clothes suddenly... rippled. Before she could open her mouth, the cardigan on top wooshed upward – shaking out into a rich drape of bold red fabric.

 

Had a centipede raced across her toes, Christine was certain she couldn't have jumped away faster – her hip slamming into the bedrail hard enough to bruise.

 

“Jesus!”

 

She gasped behind cupped hands – mashed further against the bed as the... thing... floated closer.

 

“Christine, meet... uh.... you know, I'm not sure it has a name...”

 

“The Cloak of Levitation.” Wong interjected. Stephen frowned.

 

“Yeah, I know that's what it's called but that's just boring. I was thinking we could call it something... I don't know... more... magical?”

 

Wong crossed his arms. “More magical than the Cloak of Levitation?”

 

The cloak, meanwhile, had drifted within inches of Christine – leaving her no escape unless she wanted to crawl across Stephen's legs. This close, an unexpectedly delicate scent rose from the soft folds. Sandalwood incense and a spice – like cardamon and... another smell she recognized enough to blush. Stephen's shaving cream. Then, before she could shout, a corner of fabric darted out – winding around her hand and lifting it, gently, towards the open collar. The shoulders of the cloak dipped forward and Christine abruptly giggled – taken aback. She could swear she'd just had her hand kissed by a garment.

 

“Hey, quit flirting.”

 

“I wasn't...” Christine sat back as the cloak spun away from her – gliding across the room to hang in the corner. She did her best to stifle her grin... until she noticed the darker stain amidst the rippling folds. Her hand rubbed down her arm – the cold in her belly bringing her back to earth.

 

“Well that explains why the EMTs couldn't remove it in the ambulance.”

 

Clearing her throat, she turned back towards the bed, where Stephen was watching her... an expression in his pale eyes that made her legs lose strength. Heat flushed across her cheeks and she blinked at the wet filming her vision. Breaking from the intensity – she bent to collect her purse from where it had fallen beneath her chair.

 

“Umm...” Her attention flicked to the clock over the bed. “God, I'm sorry – I have to go. I only have a few hours before my shift and I haven't showered in days...” She opened and closed her mouth – blushing harder at sharing that little tidbit amongst present company. “I'll stop by after work...” She kissed Stephen on the forehead before heading for the door – wishing, more than anything, she could just... stay.

 

The door eased shut on its pneumatic hinge – clicking into the frame and leaving the two men with an excess of silence between them.

 

Stephen tapped the fingers of one hand against the pulse oximeter clamped to his right index.

 

Wong sat in the padded visitor's chair – knees spread wide and hands braced on them. Behind him, the cloak fluttered in the absence of wind – a corner of cloth reaching out to tap at the stuffed gorilla.

 

“She's very pretty.”

 

“Wong...” Stephen rubbed his squinting eyes.

 

His friend turned – his resting, impossible-to-decern-intent face, doubling down with a complete lack of blinking. Whatever else Stephen had experienced in life – that look never failed to make him twitchy.

 

“What. What!”

 

Wong sighed. “Are you alright?”

 

Stephen huffed out a grunt. “Look, I know I shouldn't have dropped my guard – I'm always supposed to be aware of my surroundings and remain in touch with the energy of every space I inhabit...”

 

Wong placed a hand on his arm. “Stephen...” He squeezed the wrist in his hand, gently. “This is not a reprimand. How is your pain? Is there anything you need?”

 

Stephen pinched the edge of his blanket between three fingers – rubbing the sterile cotton against the pad of his thumb. His pain really wasn't so bad, currently. The morphine had muffled things to a dull ache along with taking his head for a spin. But it had also loosened the bolts to his memory – heaving all of the doors open at the same time and there was... _a lot_... to process.

 

In some ways, the pain from all of his unlived hours was more potent than the real injury adding a scar to his back. His fingers dug a little harder at the bedding – finding the hemmed edge where he began to pull small threads from the fabric. It was always worst part... time rewinding... pulling him back to the beginning but with new memories. Every time restored... the pain of violent death removed but every nuance of how he'd felt now, permanently, stored within a rapidly growing room.

 

Wong's hand moved to cover his own – stopping his picking fingers and only then noticing that they'd begun to shake. Fatigue always made the tremors worse. And so did fear. He shuddered through a breath and blinked suddenly stinging eyes.

 

“Stephen...”

 

He cleared his throat before pulling his free arm across his lap. “It's fine it's... nothing...” His jaw shook and he bit his teeth tight together.

 

Wong made a sound between a grunt and a sigh. “The weight of your thoughts is a burden you carry alone. But...” he fixed his steady gaze, once more – drawing Stephen to meet it, “you are not required to do so.”

 

Stephen's thumb dragged beneath his eye before moving to scratch at his shoulder. “I'm sure the Ancient One would say otherwise.”

 

“The Ancient One had her own secrets.” Wong countered. “But she never expected anyone to carry any weight that was beyond their ability to lift. What was the first thing she did, after bringing you into the temple?”

 

Stephen shrugged. “Shoved me out of my own body and into the worst LSD drug trip ever imagined while trigging a near fatal supraventricular tachycardia.”

 

Wong's eyes gleamed – his cheek dimpling just a bit. “Before that.”

 

Squinting, Stephen licked his lips. “She... poured me a cup of tea?”

 

“And then, when you were accepted as a student, she gave you a room, clothing, food, and a hot bath. She also gave you a wifi password. Why do you think that was?”

 

Stephen didn't speak – fighting the urge to shrug again.

 

“Do you think she expected you to find sources of knowledge, about the ancient arts, more extensive than what was contained within our own libraries?” It was a beat of a moment – of pondering the motivations behind one of the most enigmatic people that Stephen had ever met – before Stephen gave up trying and tilted his head at Wong.

 

“She wanted me to play online poker? Because I'm pretty sure, at this point, that would be considered cheating.”

 

“She wanted you to keep in contact with those you'd left behind – knowing the day would arise when you would have need of their help. And their friendship.” He could have made a joke about that – the drugs humming through his veins opening a wide door to flippant sarcasm. But... the sincerity of Wong's statement and the friendship he'd had with his late Master tugged something too painful for mockery – no matter how lightly delivered. Instead, he shuddered another breath and turned towards the wall – eyes closing tight as tears seeped beneath the lids.

 

He felt the soft brush of cloth against his cheek and chuckled – loosening Wong's hold to reach up and drag knuckles through rippling folds.

 

Wong moved to rest his fingers against his arm. “I will remain here as long as you require. I will not abandon you, my friend.”

 

A different pain bloomed in his chest – a sharpness as another loss rushed through him with ice in its wake.

 

“ _We broke our rules, just like her. The bill comes due. Always! A reckoning. I will follow this path no longer.”_

 

Wong would never pressure him. That wasn't his way. If Stephen were to ask him to leave – he would do so without offense.

 

But... Stephen didn't want him to. And he was tired of carrying this.

 

With the cloak settling warm across his lap he leaned his head back into his pillows and breathed deeply.

 

“One thousand times. You'd think a being, like Dormammu would have had more creativity... more stamina, for that matter. He could have killed me a million times. I'd given him an eternity to burn through every form of punishment he could dream up. He could have done anything he'd wanted... he...”

 

Stephen trembled – a violent convulsion of his limbs. Tears slipped down his jaw and the cloak tightened around his legs. At his side, Wong listened.

 

And Stephen spoke.

 

Of fire and blood and what it felt like to drown in both – to feel every bone snap while his torturer made no sound...

 

Above, the clock stopped tracking the minutes – stopped holding any meaning.

 

He wasn't chastised for weakness. He wasn't ridiculed for his fear – for choosing a path that had ended in his own death rather than his enemy's.

 

And as afternoon melted into night – his story came to its end – and his friend settled back into his chair with no intention of leaving his side.

 

Not long afterward, finally fading into sleep – his dreams were of oceans and sand and bright colored ice cream.

 

And, for the first time in months, there were no nightmares.

 


End file.
